


i can almost see you

by celosiaa



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Death Wish, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Please be careful!!, but i could see how it could be triggering, not technically suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:34:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25979818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celosiaa/pseuds/celosiaa
Summary: Tim says his final farewells.Martin refuses to leave his side.(for a prompt requesting an exploration of Tim saying his last goodbyes before the Unknowing, and being comforted through it all)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 19
Kudos: 40





	i can almost see you

**Author's Note:**

> CW: suicidal(ish) thoughts, discussion of death wish/martyrdom, heavy angst
> 
> hi everyone! this is from a prompt on my tumblr requesting an exploration of Tim saying his last goodbyes, and being comforted through it all. though I would not classify him as suicidal, I could see how this piece could be triggering for folks who struggle with those things. please please please be careful!!! love to you all!
> 
> (Tim's thoughts are formatted in italics)

“Honestly, I hope that John learned something from her because—because I don’t expect I’m going to be coming back from this. I don’t know if I want to. And if he needs to pull the trigger, to _use_ me to stop it… well, he’d better have the guts to do it.”

Tim stops briefly, the faint flicker of compulsion fading away to nothing as he says these words.

_My last words._

He knows it as sure as anything—this had been his last statement for the archive. Whether that means he escapes, or he dies, Tim can’t even find it in himself to care. Just for it all to be over.

He’s just got to end the tape.

“Timothy Stoker, August 4th, 2017.”

It’s so very like an obituary that he cannot help but laugh.

“Statement ends.”

Clicking off the recorder, Tim buries his face in his hands, rubbing at eyes that have seen no rest for days now. He hasn’t been able to sleep, able to eat, able to—anything, really, now he thinks of it. And what would be the point anyway? He’s only got to last a little bit longer.

“Tim? Are you alright?” a timid voice asks from the doorway.

_Of course it would be Martin._

_Of course._

“Well, isn’t this just the icing on the cake?” he says with as much vitriol as he can manage, pulling the corners of his mouth into a wide and terrible grin.

To his surprise, this does not seem to intimidate Martin in the slightest. Certainly, the man of a few years ago would have balked at this behavior, so worried even to look at someone the wrong way that he would rather just run out of the room. The expression he’s directing at Tim right now, however, speaks volumes as to just how much they’ve all changed.

“Look, you can—you can be nasty to me all you want,” he says, stepping into the office and closing the door behind him. “It’s not going to stop this conversation from happening.”

_Bastard._

Wiping the grin from his face, Tim leans back in the wooden chair, which creaks a bit as he crosses his arms tightly across his chest. Martin absolutely refuses to look away, his eyes just boring into Tim’s with a steadily-building intensity—until he finally bursts.

 _“What?_ What do you want, Martin? Just spit it out,” he shouts, slamming a hand against the table and returning the stare with equal force.

“I heard what you just said,” he says quietly, refusing to match Tim’s outlandish volume.

“Great, thanks for eavesdropping then! Really appreciate it,” Tim spits, tipping back even further to stare angrily at the ceiling.

“Well, I’ve already heard it, so _tough_. And to be honest, it fucking terrified me.”

_What?_

Taken so completely aback by this language, his eyes immediately snap back to Martin—who is staring at him more seriously perhaps than ever before.

 _There was time I would have loved this,_ he thinks dimly, just a flicker of memory of teasing and laughter dancing across his mind—gone as quickly as it had come. It makes his head ache.

“Yeah—yeah, I mean it, alright?” Martin continues, straightening up even taller, firm in his determination not to let this go. 

“What you said about not expecting to come back, and—” he breaks off to inhale a quick, shaky breath. “—and not wanting to. That bit. That terrified me.”

Seeing the fear written all over Martin’s face, knowing that he had put it there, that this might be the last time he saw him—

Tim can’t think about it—he won’t.

_Just get out just get out just get out_

“If this is your idea of an intervention, Martin, it’s very sad,” he says, standing from the chair with a wooden creak and crossing the room quickly.

A firm hand grips his upper arm before he can make it to the door—and it’s been so long since anyone has touched him that he cannot help but freeze in his tracks, briefly overwhelmed by the sensation. He stares down at Martin’s hand on his arm, frozen in shock.

“I know, alright?” Martin says, clearly fighting with his own voice to keep his tone gentle. “I know this probably won’t help, and you probably won’t listen to me at all, and that it might all be rubbish.”

Tim can’t help but huff out a derisive laugh at this as he tries to move away again—but Martin’s grip remains firm.

“But I also know _you,_ Tim.”

_You don’t know me you don’t know me you don’t_

“I know you, alright? And I know what you’re trying to do—be a hero, be a martyr, sacrifice yourself for the sake of vengeance—"

 _“You know fuck all about me,”_ Tim hisses, cutting off whatever ridiculous nonsense Martin was about to say at once, trying yet again to shoulder past him.

And he’s stopped again—this time by a gentle hand on his shoulder. It’s warm and soft and…and _kind_.

Something is coming back to Tim now, scratching at the back of his mind like some half-forgotten dream.

“That’s not true,” Martin says, sharp and low. “That’s not true and you know it.”

_…I do know._

Clawing to the surface of his thoughts, of his memories, of everything that he’s tried to shut down or block out for the last few months are pictures—small scenes in flashes, colors all faded and running together, yet still somehow so vivid it makes his head spin.

> _Martin on their first day of work together, chasing a dog around the archives while Tim tries to stop laughing long enough to catch it._
> 
> _The two of them seated at the breakroom table with ice cream, Martin listening to him pine after Sasha with a small smile on his face._
> 
> _Martin staying at his apartment for a bit after his mother decided to move out, watching telly and eating pizza and just taking comfort in each other’s presence._
> 
> _Martin sitting with him on the floor of the archives bathroom, rubbing his back and listening to him pour out his grief on the anniversary of Danny’s death._
> 
> _Sasha and himself sharing food and wine with Martin after he’d ended up staying in the archives—and Martin confessing his crush on Jon at last, blushing fit to burst._
> 
> _Martin driving him to physical therapy after the worms had injured his shoulder, trying to make up for having left him behind, though he has insisted over and over that it’s not Martin’s fault._
> 
> _The two of them trudging through the tunnels under the institute, with Martin supporting his weight after he’d turned his ankle._
> 
> _Both of them together, sharing their grief over Sasha—until Tim had begun to pull away._

Even now, Martin still reaches out to him, still checks on him, knowing he’s been so full of despair and anger and sorrow that he’s drowning in it. Even now, he still continues to throw him a lifeline, and Tim _knows_ he’s been so nasty, that he’s been cutting everyone out and everything is just so _wrong—_

Someone gasps—and Tim quickly realizes it was himself.

“Tim?” Martin’s hand moves from his shoulder to behind his elbow now, his brows furrowing in concern. “You okay?”

“Fine, fine,” he manages to mumble, his voice coming from somewhere far beneath the earth.

The room begins to spin.

“Woah, okay, just—just sit down, alright?” Martin urges, guiding him quickly back toward the chair with hands clasped behind his elbows. “I’ll get you some water.”

_Sit down? But—_

When he looks up again, he is already sitting, head buried in arms he’s crossed over the table in front of him. He lets out a soft groan at the movement, the office around him pitching sickeningly—and promptly folds over onto his arms once again. 

_God, how did I get here?_

_How did I become this?_

He stays quiet for several moments, rubbing his forehead miserably into his arms as he begs his vision to stop swimming. Even now, he’s considering running, overwhelmed by everything that’s just flooded his memories, hoping that if he runs again he can just _ignore ignore ignore_ until it’s all finished. Until he’s finished.

“Tim? I’ve got you some water.”

Once again, Martin is there to stop him, bringing a bit of comfort with him in the process. 

_God. He shouldn’t even care about me at this point._

_I’ve done everything I could think of to make him stop._

Chest twinging with the weight of it, Tim raises his head slowly, unfolding his arms to prop himself up to sitting braced against the table. Martin pulls the chair around from the other side, setting himself catty-corner to him.

“You alright?” he asks in a near-whisper, tilting his head to try and get a better look at Tim’s face.

The gentleness with which he asks this question is enough to bring a lump immediately to Tim’s throat, and he reaches out for the glass set in front of him—swallowing the tears and the water down to the last drop.

“Alright, that’s good, that’s—that’s great,” Martin praises, though it does not sound at all like he thinks so. “When’s the last time you’ve eaten?”

Tim cannot bring himself to reply. He’s quite certain Martin already knows the answer to that question, anyway. 

_Is this really how I want to leave this?_

_How I want to spend the last of our time together?_

_To leave without even an apology, after everything._

In a moment, he makes a decision, gripping every foul thing that has forced him to hold his tongue and casting it all away.

“I’m sorry, Martin,” he mutters, hanging his head. “I’m sorry for yelling.”

“It’s alright,” Martin says, because _of course he would._

“It’s really not.”

Turning to face him now, Tim is greeted with hazel eyes full of worry, lines creasing between eyebrows that have shot up past his fringe. He can’t help but smile sadly at the sight—knowing that Martin will never understand, how hurt he will be over whatever happens tonight, how hard he’s tried to make friends in this world, only to have them all stripped away till none remain—barely Jon, and not even Tim anymore.

_He deserves to know. He deserves to have a place to visit her._

The smile Tim offers him now only furrows the lines of worry on Martin’s face closer, and Tim knows he must really look rather frightening at this point.

“Look, I—I want to show you something,” he says, standing carefully from the table. “Something you should know about.”

“What do you mean?” Martin asks apprehensively, standing with him, arms hovering near Tim’s elbows, just in case.

“It’s not far,” Tim assures, grabbing his keys from the table and making his way toward the door. “We’ve got some time yet.”

“Wait, Tim, where—?”

He turns back to face him, meeting him with an expression that begs for his trust, however unearned it may be.

“Just follow me, okay?”

“O…kay?”

Though his fears are far from disbanded, Martin follows Tim out of the office, flicking out the lights out behind them in a final farewell.

\---

Upon reaching the cemetery, the one where Danny has been buried for nearly four years now, Tim leads them quickly down the earthen path, straight toward a patch of trees and brush on their left. Behind him, Martin stammers a bit in confusion.

“Tim, I thought…I thought Danny’s was over—oh.”

Tim has stopped now, a few yards back into the trees, where he has erected a small monument. It’s not much, really—just a stake in the ground, sanded and stained cherry with his own hands, and a bit of carving at the top.

**_Sasha Eloise James_ **

**_4 August 1985 – 29 July 2016_ **

**_“The Best”_ **

“Oh,” Martin chokes, a bit wetter this time.

Turning at the sound, he looks Martin over—finding him rapidly blinking back tears. 

“Just thought,” Tim starts, his voice coming out hoarser than he’d expected. “Just thought you should know this is here.”

He pulls his eyes away from Martin to give him some privacy, as well as to allow himself to breathe through the memories—all distorted by the face of the Stranger, now. After a few deep inhales, it seems Martin finds the strength to speak again, his voice wobbling only a bit around his tears.

“You made this?”

“Yeah,” Tim replies, brushing his thumb over the carving to scrape away some dirt that has built up there. “Probably not exactly legal, but…I didn’t really care.”

“It’s beautiful,” Martin whispers, stepping forward at last to stand at his side, his simple act of camaraderie pulling a wry smile to Tim’s face.

“ _She_ was beautiful,” Tim says, the constant hollow of his chest flooding with something both aching and lovely as he speaks. “I can’t…I can’t remember her face exactly, but I remember that. And so smart. And—”

“And kind,” Martin finishes, reaching an arm across his shoulders, the warmth of it seeping deep into his back. “Always kind. And always willing to stick up for you.”

“Yeah,” Tim’s voice breaks properly now, and he hangs his head to hide the tears stinging in his eyes.

Martin notices, of course. As always.

“And bossy, a bit,” he continues with a smile, pulling Tim into a proper side hug now, running a hand comfortingly over his upper arm.

Tim can’t help but laugh roughly at this, the sound of it more choking and wet than anything.

“Yeah a bit,” he whispers, the tears at last spilling over his cheeks.

It’s too much, it’s all too much, and it _aches aches aches_ —he can’t help but double over, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of it all, biting back against the sobs threatening to burst from his throat.

“Hey, hey,” Martin soothes, rubbing his back, gentle as ever. “Are you alright?”

 _No,_ he wants to say more than anything.

_I don’t think I ever will be._

“Just…just give me a moment, would you?” he asks, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“Oh—yeah, erm…I’ll just be at that bench, okay?” Martin says at once, stepping back and thumbing in the general direction of a park bench they had passed.

Tim merely nods in response, and then Martin is gone—leaving only him, the quiet, and the birds singing above. He lets it lie there for a moment, staring down at the curving letters of her name, trying desperately to remember her face, her true face. But nothing comes to him—nothing save the rising static and the cold and the dark.

_I’ve got to tell her. She has to know._

“I haven’t forgotten you, you know. Never could do. You’re—‘unforgettable,’ as you put it. Thought about carving that on your post here, but I could hear your voice in my head saying it was ‘too on-the-nose.’”

He can’t help the smile that spreads across his face now, the memories feeling closer to him than perhaps ever before.

“I…I think I’ll be seeing you soon. Really soon, in fact—you and Danny both. And I just want you to know that it’s alright, that I’m not scared, and that I’m going to see justice done. I won’t stop until it’s done, I promise.”

Crouching down in front of the post now, he rubs his thumb back over her name again and again, memorizing the feeling of it in his hands to tide him over for however long he has left on this earth.

“I promise, sweetheart. I know you hate when I call you that, but it’s just the truth, isn’t it?”

With a soft smile, he rises back to standing, knees aching in protest as he brushes them off.

“Can’t wait to see you, Sash. We’ll have a laugh at the whole thing soon, I’m sure.”

As he starts to turn away, his heart shatters with the thought that _this can’t be it this can’t be it this can’t be it—_

And he turns back, laying his hand to rest on top of the cherry wood.

“Tell Danny I’m coming, okay?” he whispers—before looking away at last.

What more could he say? What more could he say that she doesn’t already know, that Danny doesn’t already know? He’ll be there soon, and he’ll say it all again, hundreds of times, thousands even, if they have the time—

“You alright?” Martin asks, standing from the bench as Tim makes his way back through the trees. “You look pale—maybe we should sit a little.”

“I’m fine, Martin,” he lies easily, and with a smile. “I promise. We can go, unless you want a moment.”

Martin seems to consider this briefly, gazing over Tim’s shoulder at the trees behind him, worrying at his bottom lip.

“No, I…I don’t think I’m ready for that just yet,” he replies at last, voice low and rough.

“That’s alright. Let’s just go then.”

As they walk, Tim tries not to hear Martin’s muffled sniffling, tries not to think about him coming back here, utterly alone in his grief—when he’s reminded of Jon.

_God, Jon._

_…he deserves to know too._

_Even after everything._

“Tell Jon about this after, alright?” he says, turning toward Martin as they walk. “So he can come here if he wants.”

“Tell him yourself,” Martin mutters wetly, eyes firmly fixed on the ground in front of him.

_He knows._

_He knows that this is the end._

_He just doesn’t want to see it._

“Martin.”

Tim forces them to stop, turning Martin towards him with a hand on his shoulder. The tears welling in Martin’s eyes, wild with repressed panic and sorrow, are like knives in Tim’s chest.

_God, Martin._

_I’m so sorry._

“Promise me. Promise me you will,” he begs in earnest, grabbing Martin lightly by the folds of his jacket.

At this, the pools in Martin’s eyes begin to run over, unbidden and so full of hurt Tim could choke on it.

“I will. I promise,” he murmurs, voice thin enough to shatter.

_Good man._

Quirking up a half-smile at this, Tim reaches on hand up to rest on his cheek, thumbing at the steady flow of tears.

“Thank you, Martin. Thank you for—”

_\--lovingcaringlaughinglisteningcryinggrievingholdingreaching—_

“—for being with me.”

He pours as much meaning as possible into these words, broken and small and fragile—and suddenly he’s being hugged—properly hugged, wrapped up in a warmth that makes him sigh in relief from the comfort of it all. A proper Martin hug.

_Not a bad way to end things after all._

“Just please try to come back alright?” Martin begs, voice rumbling in Tim’s ear where he’s got it pressed into Martin’s chest.

“Martin—”

“Just try. That’s all I ask. Try to make it out. It’s what they—it’s what Sasha and Danny would both want.”

_He doesn’t understand he doesn’t understand he doesn’t understand._

Biting back against the lie with all the strength he has left, Tim reassures him of a falsehood too dreadful to bear.

“I’ll try,” he whispers.

“Thank you.”

At last, Martin pulls away—eyes still brimming and swiping his nose desperately against his sleeve—but offering a gentle smile all the same. He’s choking it all back, and Tim knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that it’s for his sake—and can’t help but return the favor.

“Come on then,” he says, shoving Martin’s shoulder good-naturedly. “Plenty to do before it’s dark.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm crying, you're crying, we're all crying baby
> 
> come yell at me in the comments or @celosiaa on tumblr, if you want <3 love you all and please take care of yourselves!


End file.
